Sweat and Tears A Guide to Silent Hill
by Slunchy B. Fistbiscuit
Summary: Hey, welcome to Silent Hill! Yeah, I know there's a few spelling errors. I wrote this at 6 a.m. without any sleep, so gimme a break, huh? Hope you enjoy your stay, you fuckin' retard.


Yep, sweat and tears. That's what it takes to be a man in this town.

This little town called…Silent Hill. This little itty bitty town that in every game, we have to spend a lot of time mentioning how teensy tiny it is. It's so small, that is still takes a long fucking time to get from one place to another. It might be because your character runs like some fat old fuck who just came in his pantaloons and it trying not to smear it all over his clean underwear, marked "Mundae".

Hey, you're ready to get started? Well run like the wind, you overweight, unshaven fuck.

Don't drive down the road in the car you came in. Get out and fuckin' run.

Hey, a burning fucking building. A fucking burning ass building, that's pretty much charred to the ground. Better go in. I've got no chance in hell, but you better go in anyways. A big fuckin' building on fuckin' fire. Cool. You goddamn moron.

Oh, nope, nothin' in there. Better run some more. Hey, a fuckin' well. Better look down it. You might find your dead wife in there. Oh hey, a little book. A little fuckin' book.

A little fuckin' book that gives you a fuckin' headache. What the fuck. Oh hey, lookie there, your progress has been saved. Good thing too, you didn't want to lose that ten feet you've run so far. That woulda been shitty.

Hey, look, a long open road with a lotta parked cars on the side. Better not touch those old dusty cars that obviously belong to nobody. You'd rather fuckin' run. Miles. And miles. And miles. Until you're just sittin' there with your eyes half closed and your goddamn mouth hangin' open like some kinda fuckin' retard with your thumb just restin' on that goddamn analog stick. Half an hour later, and hey, you're almost there!

Oh look, a health drink! A health drink halfway under the tire of a car, in the middle of the street. Fuckin' convenient. Hey look a dead guy whose brains are splattered all over the wall and he's obviously been dragged around a bit, 'cause his fuckin' legs are missing god damn it, and there's a long ass trail of blood. What do you say to that?

"Hmm. This guy's dead."

That's it? Why are you so fuckin' calm you goddamn fuck? You're a fuckin' psycho if you're not flippin' the fuck out at that. Fuck you.

Well whaddya know, you're in front of a fuckin' bar. Better run in. There might be some hot dead chicks you can hit on. Might as well get a drink, because the dead guys sprawled all over the place isn't a clue enough to get the fuck outta there. You fuckin' dumbass.

You walk in and grab some shit. You grab a typewriter, a bottle of alcohol, a dildo, some ammo…but not the money from the cash register. No, that would be immoral. 'Cause those dead guys might come back to life and need it, right? What are ya, fuckin' nuts?

Say, what's that over there? It's a note. Better go check it the fuck out. Maybe half the letters will be scribbled out, thus rendering it a useless fucking thing to collect.

But you take it anyways. You take it because you want it.

It's another fucking thing to collect. Along with those eleven typewriters you're carrying in the pocket of your flannel shirt. Those eleven typewriters you're going to slowly hurl at a big fucking mass of flesh that's running at you top speed. That'll fucking work.

Don't go for the steel pole over there, no sir. Go for the fucking typewriter. Or the toaster. The fucking toaster. You're going to hurt an eight foot tall guy with a giant fucking knife with a goddamn toaster. Maybe you can watch him fuck some other mass of bloody flesh first, before he kicks your ass. Yeah, better do that.

Better hide in a fucking closet and watch him fuck some goddamn boogeymen. That's real smart. Don't run out the door, hide in a closet. In the same room with that giant motherfucker with the big ass knife. Hey, why not make some noise while you're at it? Try shooting the motherfucker. Yeah, that'll work! Try shooting through that foot thick steel alloy helmet of his. You dumb motherfucker.

Now back to that sweating. You'll be sweating 'cause you're gonna be doin' a lotta fuckin' runnin' from place to place. You'll be fuckin' runnin' and gunnin' for hours on end. Back and fuckin' forth. Trying to find a fucking key or some shit.

Time to try out the bazillion doors in this fuckin' place. Hmm, lock broken. Oh well, try another one. Lock broken. Another one? Lock broken. Why are all the locks in this place fuckin' broken? What the fuck is with that? What, did the monsters eat everyone's guts and then think to themselves "Huh, well Dave, we might as well break the fuckin' locks, unless some guy decides to come hear and steal this guy's tv. He may be fuckin' dead, but he was watchin' that when he died. What was he watchin'? Flatliners? With Keifer Sutherland? Yeah, I think it was Flatliners."

You go for a door, with the gigantic helmet shithead right behind ya. It's locked. Shit.

Well the big knife guy fuckin' gored ya. Time to use one of those health drinks.

Even though you've got a massive sucking chest wound, it's nothin' a health drink won't fix. Time to run the fuck away. The first smart thing you've done. But you're not gettin' the fuck out, no sir, you're goin' to find another fuckin' key that is for some goddamn reason in a fuckin' gumball machine. Whoops, better find the quarter with the fuckin' picture of a dog lickin' his nuts on it, so you can get that key out. Can't bust down the fuckin' door with that giant fuckin' battering ram you're carryin', you've just gotta get that key. So you run, you run, you run. Run, run, run. And run some more. Until you find that fuckin' quarter lodged in some fat guy's asshole.

So ya go back and you get that fuckin' key. And you unlock the door, after at least an hour of mindless fuckin' wandering and testing out a thousand doors with broken fuckin' locks. Well, turns out it was a trick door, and some big fuckin' fleshy thing jumped out at ya and fuckin' stabbed ya. You're supposed to know that's gonna happen, you know.

You throw that goddamn typewriter at it. Hey, what do you know, that got it. Better stomp on it's fuckin' nuts to make sure it's dead. That's a good idea. Kick it right in the fuckin' balls. Hey, there's that knife guy again. Let's fuckin' fight him this time, that's a good idea! You've got a buncha typewriters, a fuckin' beer jug, a dildo, and pack of beef jerky. But don't worry, you've still got your fists! Maybe you can beat the livin' shit outta his big steel helmet with your goddamn bare hands.

Whoops, you got fucked in the ass. Because this game is too fuckin' hard. And you're just some fatass cocksucker that can't do more than a light jog, if even that, 'cause you get exhausted after 'bout seven steps. Now to the tears bit.

You're fuckin' cryin' like a little baby 'cause there wasn't a save point in over a fuckin' hour and all your progress, aka runnin' the fuck back and forth was fuckin' lost.

Now you've gotta go and check every broken fuckin' lock again. You fuckin' asshole.


End file.
